Tuesday, January 26, 2016

I’m not exactly what you
would call “cutting edge” and I’m not much of a trendsetter. Sometimes it takes me a while to get with the
program and follow a trend.

And sometimes I avoid
the program altogether.

Like, for instance, when
the ripped jeans trend started, I couldn’t follow it. All I wanted to do was
take a needle and thread to the tears in those jeans and stitch them back
together. Not the point, I know, but it was
a look I could neither accept nor pull off.

Fortunately, my
avoidance of cutting edge trends has saved me from later embarrassment a time
or two. As proof, I have two words for
you: Parachute Pants.

Nobody looked good in
those things and MC Hammer is still probably mortified. Sure, he made a lot of
dough from his 80s hit, You Can’t Touch This,
but in that getup who wanted to touch
that?

Enough said.

My trend avoidance isn’t
solely related to fashion either.

When people stood around
the proverbial water coolers at work discussing the latest doings on their
favorite television shows, I was usually on the fringes staying silent because it
was a series I hadn’t started following.
In fact, it’s only years later that I now know what the fuss was all
about on series like Breaking Bad and Lost and Dexter.

Thank goodness for
Netflix.

As a matter of fact, I
have only just recently jumped on the bandwagon of a certain film series. You’ve
probably heard of it – Star Wars?

Yeah, that one. I had never seen a single installment of Star Wars. Ever.

I don’t know why,
really. It’s not like I detest science fiction-type movies or anything. After all, I really liked The
Matrix and the Terminator and Men in Black.

Plus, Harrison Ford was
pretty cute back in the day. (I still like him now, but would hardly call him “cute”!)

So when my sister,
brother-in-law and niece were in town over the holidays and wanted to see Star Wars: Episode VII – The Force Awakens
and asked me to join them, well, how could I refuse?

Besides, it’s not like I’ve
been hiding under a rock for the past thirty-nine years since the first Star Wars movie premiered. I know all
about R2D2 and Chewbacca and Princess Leia and her gold bikini. And something
about Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia being brother and sister. And, of course, I have heard the line, “Luke,
I am your father” about a bajillion times – even though I also know it’s a
misquote and Darth Vader never actually said those exact words.

Just for grins one time,
I played a game of Star Wars trivia –
and won. Go figure. I must be good at
guessing. Or all that trivia passed
through my subconscious at one time or another through the years.

So now I can no longer
say that I’ve never seen any of the Star
Wars movies. And who knows? I may even have a Star Wars movie marathon so I
can really make sense of this latest installment.

Just don’t expect me to change
my ways and become a cutting-edge trendsetter.

I have only ever worn
green or blue nail polish when my Halloween costume demanded it and I don’t
understand ombre hair. It still looks to me like someone forgot to make an
appointment with their stylist.

And speaking of hair…don’t
even get me started on the whole man
bun thing…

That’s a trend that
needs to go away. Now. Because it's unlikely that I’ll
be around in another thirty-nine years to finally get it.

Saturday, January 23, 2016

This is a story of the
BIG trash can in Jane’s Domain. Normally, we wouldn’t be talking about things
like trash cans as there really isn’t much to say about them. Or so you’d think.

But has that every
stopped me before? Of course not!

We can’t exactly call
Trash Cans pretty. Oh, I suppose you could go all Pinterest on them and
decorate them with stencils and paint and Mod Podge and such. But, in my
opinion, they still wouldn’t be pretty.

So what could I possibly
have to say about Trash Cans, you ask?

Well, see, last week – while we’re
still in January and I’m in the “Let’s Get Organized!” mode – I decided that I
couldn’t stand our trash can situation any longer.

So I ordered a new one.
More about this in a minute.

When we moved into this
house three and a half years ago, the previous owner left her trash can here.
It is functional, true. And it has wheels, which seem as if they would be
handy, but the can is not very sturdy and the wheels don’t roll very well. So we are usually forced to half carry, half drag
the can to the curb.

And – most importantly –
the can doesn’t hold very much. Perhaps
the previous owner was better at leaving a smaller trash footprint than we do,
but we frequently discovered that we couldn’t fit all our weekly trash into
that one can.

So we (meaning “I”) often
left the trash in bags on the floor of the garage until it was Garbage Night
and then we (meaning “Vince”) had to figure out how to fit five bags of garbage
into a can that holds about three.

So even though I
struggled to push the lid back into its original shape before it got run over, it
never fit correctly on the trash can again.
Which meant that once the lid was down on the can, it could be lifted
off only with a winch and/or a body-builder on steroids. As I have neither of those handy on a routine
basis, I rarely attempted to remove the lid in order to deposit a bag of trash
into the can.

So last week I compared
prices for new trash cans. And, boy, was
I shocked. Lemme tell you: trash cans ain’t
cheap! Nevertheless, I was determined to
solve our trash situation.

Normally, I would simply
order from Amazon.com using my Prime membership (and “free” shipping), but their
prices were significantly higher than the local Lowe’s Home Improvement
store. Plus, it would be nearly a week
before the can would be delivered.

Instead, I knew I could
order online from Lowe’s and go pick it up that afternoon without paying a
delivery charge.

And the benefits! The can from Lowe’s has a permanently
attached lid, so that it would never again get run over by sanitation workers. It has sturdy wheels so we never again have
to drag the can to the end of the driveway. It is large enough to hold all our
trash. And the reviews were overwhelmingly positive.

Satisfied that I’d made
the correct move, I purchased the can and drove to Lowe’s to pick it up. It was, by the way, a frigid 18 degrees
outside. But I assumed it would be a
quick trip and I’d soon be home basking in the glow of solving our trash
problem.

I arrived at Lowe’s and
showed the paperwork to the clerk who sent a runner to the back of the store to
retrieve my trash can. This took about 20 minutes and, while I realize Lowe’s
is a big store, it wouldn’t take me
20 minutes to reach the back. So I
figured the runner maybe took a smoke break while he was back there.

When he eventually wheeled
the can up to the Service Desk, I thought, Yeah,
that’s definitely big enough.

Never
did I think, Hmmm, I wonder if it will
fit in my car?

I should have. Because it didn’t.

I confidently wheeled it
out to the parking lot and up to my car. My four-door Audi A4. A sedan.
NOT a truck or an SUV, as were just about all the other vehicles in the
parking lot. And now I know why.

But I thought I could
simply pull the front passenger seat forward as far as it would go and then
slide the can into the back seat.

Yeah, that didn’t
work. While the bottom of the can fit, I
couldn’t get the top of it in.

So then I popped the
trunk and I folded down the back seat. And attempted to lift the can into the
trunk, but couldn’t even get the bottom part of it in.

By this point, I knew
that pretty much the only way I would’ve gotten that can home with my car was
to either strap it to the top – or drag it behind the car.

Neither of those options
sounded reasonable. Plus, I didn’t have
any bungee cords. And, yes, I was at Lowe’s
and could have gone back in and purchased some, but I’m not well-schooled on
bungee-cord application. I’m never
really sure where to hook them securely without pulling off important parts of
the car.

In defeat, I turned
around and headed back into the store wheeling my brand-new trash can. I took a
little comfort in the fact that since it was only 18 degrees outside, probably
no one was watching me and laughing as I tried to fit a 64-gallon trash can
into a small sedan.

The clerk suggested I
rent a truck from them for $65 – something I was loathe to
do. Or they could deliver it for – you guessed
it – $65.

I told the clerk that I’d
simply find a friend with an SUV or truck and would be back to pick up the
can.

Except that their
paperwork showed that I had already picked up the can. So in order to keep their paperwork straight,
they had to “return” the can and then reapply payment to a “new” trash can.
Which would then be waiting for me in the back of the store.

This process took
another 20 minutes. By this point, I was sincerely wishing I had paid the extra
money to Amazon.com.

But I was determined to
get that infernal trash can home, so I spent the next two days trying to figure
out who would take pity on me and drive me to Lowe’s to pick it up.

Fortunately, I have
wonderful neighbors. I explained the trash can situation to Suzy who arranged a
trip to Lowe’s with Pat who came to my rescue.

Pat’s husband has a big
red truck (I suppose I should know the make and model for reporting purposes –
but all I know is that it’s shiny and new and has a fancy interior and you have
to climb up really far to reach the seat.)
It certainly seemed big enough to handle my BIG trash can.

So we walked into Lowe’s
and picked up that trash can and confidently wheeled it out to the truck. We picked it up – and slid it in.

I’d love to report that
it fit easily inside the truck, but it barely fit! We had to bungee cord it in. (Apparently Pat
is more well-schooled on bungee cord application than I am.)

Nevertheless, we were
able to close the tailgate and get the trash can home safe and sound.

So now my trash can
situation is solved. But, strangely, I’m
still not excited about Garbage Night.

Hunh. Wonder if I should check Pinterest for those stencil and paint and Mod Podge
ideas?

Sunday, January 17, 2016

When I was a kid, we were
instructed to call my mother’s sister “Aunt Ethel.” And to call my mother’s
cousins “Aunt Babbie” and “Aunt Dorothy.”

The first one was
legitimately an aunt; the second and third were, technically, cousins. We were second cousins or once removed or
something like that. But since they were grown-ups and we were kids, we were
not allowed to call them by their first names and had to put the “Aunt” in
front as a sign of respect.

But that wasn’t a big
deal to us. Well into my adulthood, I continued to call these ladies “Aunt” – whatever
– and couldn’t imagine calling them by their given names. (And, okay, so technically, “Babbie” wasn’t her
given name. But she rarely used her
first name, which was Louise.” I‘m not
even sure where the name “Babbie” came from!)

But I digress. As usual.

The difference is that
our parents are from New England. And they pronounced A-U-N-T as “Ah-nt”rather than“Ant” as so many of our friends from the
Midwest called their relatives.

As kids we didn’t like
being different, so whenever we could get away with it, we used the Midwest
pronunciation. And by “getting away with
it” I mean whenever my mother wasn’t around.

If she was within
earshot and heard us use the “Ant”
pronunciation, she’d sternly correct us: “She isn’t an ‘ANT’ that crawls around
on the floor,” she’d admonish. “She’s your ‘Ah-nt’!”

If Mom wasn’t watching,
we’d usually roll our eyes and then dramatically repeat the title loudly using
her pronunciation.

Even though we thought
it sounded strange and weird. We
weren’t, after all, from New England. We
were from Ohio. And Ohioans pronounced
it “Ant”!

But we somehow managed
to survive our childhood. And rarely was an “Aunt” harmed with whatever
pronunciation we used. They knew we
loved them no matter what we called them!

Unless,
of course, our mother is within earshot. And then we hear the same ol’ thing
all over again. “She isn’t an ‘ANT’ that crawls around
on the floor,” she’d admonish. “She’s your ‘Ah-nt’!”

My sister and I just grin
at each other. And, okay, so we still roll our eyes.

Just a little.

Chloe complies with
Nanna’s admonishment, but even she will dramatically repeat the title loudly using
Nanna’s pronunciation.

Until this past
Christmas, however. Chloe is now 12. And
you can’t really tell a 12-year-old the ways of the world without their checking
Google. So Chloe Googled “Aunt” and it
spit out the verbal pronunciation as “Ant.”

True enough, there is
another pronunciation in Google – the way my mother pronounces it. But Chloe
somehow avoided that one altogether.

Her Nanna, on the other
hand, doesn’t really care what Google thinks.
And she continued to remind Chloe about the correct pronunciation.

Apparently Chloe likes
saying my name – so eventually she started spelling it. “’A-U-N-T’ Jane,” she’d say, “will you play a
game with me?”

Eventually it got to the
point where she would spell “A-U-N-T” Jane so fast, it almost sounded like she
was calling me Auntie Jane – and that just made me laugh.

I started calling her “N-I-E-C-E”
Chloe, but that just didn’t roll off the tongue as easily, so eventually I
stopped and reverted to my affectionate name for her, which is “Little Missy.” She usually laughs whenever I call her that,
so I haven’t stopped.

It will be all too soon,
I imagine, when she’ll just roll her eyes if I use that term of endearment, so when that happens I may stop.

Maybe.

But no matter what she
calls me, I know Chloe loves me. And
that’s what counts – right?

Saturday, January 9, 2016

So an entire week has passed since we rang in a
brand-spanking new year.

And I still haven’t taken down my Christmas decorations.
Our fully decorated 7-1/2 foot tall Christmas tree stands forlornly in the
corner of our living room feeling sorry for itself that we neither light it nor
look at it anymore.

Ack, the shame!
Not taking down Christmas decorations by January 2nd is pretty
much a major sin in Jane’s Domain.

But I have a good excuse. Or at least since I’m the “Jane”
in Jane’s Domain and I get to pardon the sins, it’s an excuse I’m willing to
accept.

I have, you see, caught yet another cold. This is the
second cold I’ve had in the last two months. I barely had time to replenish my
stash of Kleenex before the next round of sniffles started.

I’m telling you, if there is a flying germ anywhere
within a 20 foot radius, it will find
me. Apparently, I’m a great host. I serve snacks. And I must’ve given that ugly
green Mucinex Man the wrong impression because he thinks he’s welcome any ol’ time.

So I’m trying to be a little less hospitable. I’ve hauled out packages of Dayquil, Nyquil,
cough syrup, nasal spray, cough drops, and, yes, Mucinex. I’ve taken them at
various times and in various combinations in the vain hope of lessening my
symptoms.

Yeah, like any of that has worked.

I’ve napped a lot this week, which certainly has helped
me catch up on any missing sleep from those pre-holiday late nights. And I’ve had no appetite, so that has helped
the New Year’s diet that I didn’t specifically resolve to start. And I’ve coughed so much, my core feels like
I’ve spent the last week doing continual crunches.

It’s not a diet and exercise plan I’d recommend, though.

For one thing, phlegm is not pretty. And for another, no energy leads to a messy
house with overflowing wastebaskets full of wads of used Kleenex. Also not
pretty. Especially when your middle is too sore to bend over to pick up a
wastebasket.

And did I mention the fully decorated Christmas tree in
the corner of my living room?

That’s enough to drive a somewhat obsessive-type person
like me a little batty.

.

We’ve run out of basic food supplies such that I’m
feeding Vince chicken noodle soup without the chicken. And I’ve been hoarding
the milk to make it last yet another day for coffee (me) and hot cereal
(Vince).

Fortunately, I believe I’ve turned the corner on this
cold and while a fit of violent coughing rudely awakened me at 4 am, I woke up
no longer feeling like I’ve been flattened by a semi going 90 mph.

So I think I may be able to venture out and do a little
Krogering. I’m going to need some
chicken to add to a new batch of chicken noodle soup.

About Me

People have compared my writing style to Dave Barry or the late Erma Bombeck, which I find flattering because I admire their writing style. I want people who read my stuff to feel like I'm sitting in the room talking with them and sharing stories and life observations.

Over the years I've been told I should write "for real." Friends and colleagues have suggested I take a stab at writing children's books or newspaper or magazine articles. I've even submitted an article or ten. No one, however, has suggested how I should pay for the roof over my head while I'm waiting to be discovered. So I've gotten 'regular' jobs where I occasionally get to work out my left brain, which has been rewarding.

And then I discovered blogging. Does blogging count as writing? We'll see. So far I'm enjoying the process.